


The Mad Key

by scarredsodeep



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: 20 dollar nose bleed, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Recording Booth Smut, Resolved Sexual Tension, Tales from 2008, Threesome - M/M/M, Unwanted Erotic Feelings About Brendon Urie, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-19 23:20:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11323809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarredsodeep/pseuds/scarredsodeep
Summary: Things get intense in the vocals booth while Patrick and Brendon are recording20 Dollar Nose Bleed. They just wanna blow off steam...





	1. I Wanna Blow Off Steam

**Author's Note:**

> Meanwhile Pete's outside like, _please let me in, please let me in._
> 
> I never wanted to write smut about Brendon Urie, but one night when I was weak and vulnerable and sleepy after a concert, we were driving home and my partner said, "I wonder if Patrick and Brendon traded off making those noises..." And then _this_ fucking happened. Good luck ever listening to that song again.
> 
> Please enjoy some fun smut to distract you from the weekly suffering update delivered by my other fic!
> 
> And, as usual--I would not exist in this world without immoral-crow, the greatest beta. <3

“Still not your fucking part,” Patrick snaps, tugging off the sound-cancelling headphones that pipe his own voice back into his ears. That is, when it’s not piping in Brendon’s voice, showy and honeyed and sharp and _taking Patrick’s lines_.

Brendon shows all of his teeth, twisting his big mouth into a big grin. “If you weren’t missing your cues I wouldn’t be singing your parts,” he says. Unlike Patrick’s, his voice is without sting; it holds the grand joke of it all. That’s Brendon: tall, perennially amused, features exaggerated beyond human proportions in a way that’s so fucking pretty they’re punchable. This is Patrick: short, doesn’t have a mouth like that, angry that Brendon does, prepared to do the punching.

Patrick shoulder-checks him, scowling to blot out his genuine fondness for this asshole, and puts his headphones back on. Into his mic he says, “Can we go from the top?”

There’s a long moment of nothing, the rest of the finished track unspooling, waiting for their voices. Patrick can hear his fucking cues. He hasn’t been missing them. “Pete?” Brendon tries into his mic. “Mariah Carey here wants to start over. Again.”

Finally, Pete’s voice fills the booth. “Seriously? I can’t walk away for two minutes without you trying to kill each other and ruining the tracking? Everyone else went home, guys, because _we’ve been here forever_. Just like, do your thing and let’s go.”

“I’m trying,” Brendon and Patrick say in unison. Each glares at the other hyperbolically. Patrick gets the sense that Bren is definitely playing. Patrick doesn’t know what’s gone so wrong in his life that he’s constantly surrounded by assholes who think it’s hilarious to aggravate him. (Pete Wentz, probably. The answer to questions like that is almost always Pete Wentz.)

Like a really exasperated guy who happens to run a label, Pete attempts to mediate. “Okay, that’s exactly the kind of interpersonal tension that’s not helping your duet. Sync up. Get on the same page. This is a song, not a fight. Find each other in it.”

Pete’s voice cuts out, and it’s just Patrick and Brendon in the booth. Patrick stares plaintively through the two-way mirror, hoping Pete sees how he’s suffering.

Pete is either unmoved or already gone. The opening notes of 20 Dollar Nose Bleed fill Patrick’s ears. Patrick turns to his mic, to Brendon. Bren takes a breath, preparing for his opening salvo, and Patrick starts singing before he can. Brendon’s dark arched brows leap. His eyes glint, his grin receptive to the challenge. He licks his lips and Patrick tries to pretend he’s not blushing from his scalp down to his fucking groin. The speeded heart rate of frustration is quick to turn. All that ruby-red oxygenated blood. There are so many creative uses.

Brendon jumps in on an unplanned harmony, so that when Patrick takes a breath he can swoop in and take main vocals. Patrick unleashes one of his best soul groans in the backing, showing off, distracting from Bren’s spotlight. Brendon’s eyebrows knit in grim determination. Vocally, he shoves back.

The song builds around them, growing intensity feeding back into their competition. Patrick makes his voice a closer and closer ape of Brendon’s, til their throats are twinned, their notes nearly indistinguishable. He’s an accomplished mimic, more practiced at manipulating his range and tone than the younger singer. Bren cuts in with a throaty howl of a trill, a sound that is half-song and half-sex. Patrick’s blood is churned up with adrenaline just under his skin, getting _ideas_. The push-and-pull, the shoving, elbowing give-and-take—the wrestling for who’s on top—it’s evocative, okay? It feels like more than singing. The look in Brendon’s eyes, it _looks_ like more than singing. Patrick’s blood thrums, thickening the resonance in his throat. If Brendon’s moans are showy, Patrick’s will be showier. Patrick takes notes deeper and deeper into his throat, resonating them in the hollow of his chest, then driving them higher and higher until they end in little whimper-screams that leave him shaking.

“Call me Mr. Benzedrine,” Patrick belts out; “Don’t let the doctor in, I wanna blow off steam,” Brendon blasts back. Patrick goes on to the next harmony but Brendon’s backing off from his microphone, fitting his face so close to Patrick’s their cheeks touch and he can feel the heat flooding Brendon’s skin. Brendon’s nudging aside one of Patrick’s earphones, all while Patrick keeps singing, and whispering significantly, “Do you want to? Blow off some steam?”

Patrick, trapped helplessly in his vocals, in the verse, stares wide-eyed and heartbeat-high at the red lips and high cheekbones and strong brow shading quick brown eyes so unlike Pete’s. Equal parts frustrated and turned on, Patrick does not pause in his singing—but he does nod.

Is Pete still out there, messing with the levels and the mix? Has he wandered off again? A soundproofed booth is only private when the channel isn’t open to the rest of the room. A two-way mirror is never private. But to be honest Patrick isn’t thinking about privacy or getting caught. He’s thinking about the scheming glitter in Brendon’s eyes, the increasingly urgent vocal-trills-turned-sex-groans they’re trading and the way his body feels like they’ve already moved way beyond singing. He’s thinking about Brendon, always the showman, and the way he’d probably get off on the performance of it all. Thinking about Pete on the other side of the glass, Pete watching them, well—it’s not making Patrick any less hard.

Patrick’s mouth is open, a breathy and ragged gasp of a melody tearing out of his lips. The bright, cheery notes of the horns fill his ears. He _feels_ stray-dog sick.

“Fourteen karats but no clarity,” Patrick manages. This is too much, takes it too far: with a tight, burning look of barely controlled hostility, Brendon grabs him by the shoulder and spins him, pressing him against the two-way mirror. Patrick’s fingers splay out, his cheek kissing the glass, and Brendon gasps his next ludicrously orgasmic _uhh-oooh_ into Patrick’s jaw, teeth grazing the line of bone, voice vibrating Patrick’s carotids and esophagus and pulpy glutted heart.

Brendon’s hard where his hips roll against Patrick’s ass. He fumbles Patrick’s belt open, pushes his hand into Patrick’s jeans, find the bright rigid heat of Patrick’s cock. Bren squeezes him, harder than you’d expect from a friend, and sinks his teeth into a tendon in Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick’s next _Benzedrine_ ends in a yelp. “Sing for me,” Brendon grates into his shoulder. “Don’t stop.” His voice is low and thick, punctuated by violent breaths.

Patrick tips back his head, rests it on Brendon’s, exposes his throat. He sings to the ceiling, his notes jumping and jarring with each rough, forceful stroke of Brendon’s hand. He can barely keep his eyes open, it feels so—so— Brendon gets Patrick’s pants unfastened, tugs them down far enough that Patrick’s cock springs free, far enough that the tops of his ass cheeks are kissed by the cool studio air. Brendon’s free hand comes to rest on Patrick’s throat, gentle as the rest of him is rough, fluttering with the movement of Patrick’s notes. With a greater range of motion, he pulls Patrick’s dick harder, rubbing his thumb over the leaking slit and swirling that wetness up the angry pink column of it. God, god. Patrick is not going to fucking make it.

His fingers tighten and flex, trying to get a grip on the slick mirrored glass. In reflection, Patrick watches Brendon’s heavy lidded eyes, the pink shine of Brendon’s darting tongue, the labor of Brendon’s mouth on Patrick’s neck. The glass judders beneath Patrick’s fingertips, a ripple from the other side—Pete. Pete, maybe pressing his fingers against Patrick’s. Pete, maybe touching himself, maybe jerking himself off to the sight and sound of them.

As if reading his thoughts, Brendon lifts his swollen mouth from Patrick’s neck. He meets Patrick’s eyes in their reflection, watches Patrick’s face change while his hand picks up speed. “Do you think Pete’s watching?” he asks. “Do you think he likes the show?”

Patrick’s next note gets obliterated by the whimper coming out of him. Brendon’s eyes, the thought of Pete, the chafing motion of Brendon’s hand. “Sing,” Brendon reminds him. Patrick tries, he fucking tries. No sound comes out. Brendon shoves him; he hits the mirror; Brendon holds his face pressed against the glass with a fist of Patrick’s hair. Brendon ruts against him, groaning.

Patrick. Patrick doesn’t like letting him win like this. Let a guy like Brendon have the upper hand, even for a minute, and—

Patrick backs up into Brendon when he’s off-balance, dropping his center of gravity into his hips and slamming against Bren’s bony frame. Brendon stumbles, losing his grip on Patrick’s cock, and this is not the time to mourn its loss. Patrick turns, advances on him. “ _You_ fucking sing,” Patrick commands. He takes himself in hand, is gratified by the sound Brendon makes, watching him—wet lips, pale cheeks, big eyes. “Pants off,” Patrick orders next. He’s a little surprised when Brendon does it, singing shaky while he shimmies free. Patrick is a little—everything, watching those white unmarked hips and thighs flash in the studio lights as Brendon’s black jeans hit the floor. Of course Brendon Urie isn’t wearing underwear. It’d either be nothing or leopard hot pants: there’s not a lot of in-between, with Brendon. Certainly his dick is definitive: red, hard, straining, stretched so tight and tall is almost brushes his belly.

Slowly, deliberately, stroking himself while he does it, Patrick eases to his knees. “Sing or I stop,” he threatens, looking up at Brendon, at the high color on his cheeks, the sweat beading on his forehead. It comes out throaty, thick, the first time; his voice cracks off. Patrick doesn’t move, except to pull his own cock. Brendon licks his lips, squeezes his eyes shut, tries again. This time, a clear note spills out. No words, but Patrick doesn’t need words. This is what Patrick needs: Brendon, filling his mouth, filling his throat. Patrick licks the length of Brendon til he’s slicked and shining in this light, then swallows him. Patrick hums around Brendon’s dick, letting it vibrate in his throat for one breathless measure, not unlike the way he holds a honeyed note: Brendon’s voice breaks apart again. Patrick loves the sound of it. Remembering the rough pace Bren set, Patrick squeezes himself as roughly, holds Brendon in place with a handful of skinny ass, and starts to move. His lips smack and squelch, sliding a rhythm along Brendon’s cock; when his singing falters, Patrick stops. In this way, he hears notes he doesn’t think Bren’s ever hit before. Patrick sucks hard, hungrily, with enough teeth to make Brendon writhe.

Patrick thinks—Patrick’s learning—Patrick’s theory is this: _the best way, with Brendon, is to brush up against the edge of what you’re sure is too much—then go over it. Any time you think you’ve stumbled on the right amount, go farther. Press harder. Bite sharper. Suck, swirl, choke yourself on it; bruise your brow on sharp_ _hipbones_ _. Suck harder, jerk faster, hear the notes that he hits. They fill the booth because all other sounds have stopped: no one’s got a free hand to man the audio controls outside. Think of Pete, think of what you’d like him to do to you. Look up at Brendon’s eyelids, all aflutter, his voice arcing out of him like he’s auditioning for Broadway. This, fuck, yes, this—this until you_ _come_ _._

_Until you all come._

Patrick rests his head on Brendon’s pale, sweat-damp thigh. He licks Brendon off his lips, bitter and salt as any secret. He is shaking. He holds onto Brendon’s narrow calves, anchoring in with his fingernails. His heart is hammering, his own thighs sticky with come. He can’t catch his breath, doesn’t want to.

Brendon, folded in on himself like a marionette, smiles down at Patrick with that familiar dazzle on his face. “Not sure if I’m feeling any more cooperative,” he says. He cants a lazy look up through his bangs, eyes boring into their own reflection. He’s either looking at Pete, or himself, or both. “Maybe we should try again?”

Patrick’s disbelief is a wheezy laugh. “Give me a fucking minute! God, fucking 20 year olds. I’m not a stallion.”

Brendon, insouciant and flushed, is still making eyes at his own image. “Maybe our producer out there can help us… find the duet,” he suggests.

“That is not a duet,” Patrick laughs. He turns his head, places a careful bite on Brendon’s inner thigh. He’s not saying no.

From where he kneels, Patrick can hear the suction of the pressure-sealed booth door swinging open. “Fuck,” comes the ruined, shaking voice of Pete. “Can I?”

That’s when Patrick knows. They could be in this booth all night; he still won’t be saying no.


	2. Please Let Me In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAD NO INTENTION OF WRITING MORE OF THIS. BUT--WOW. Your wish is my command. [Gifs like this](http://shark-myths.tumblr.com/post/162200711387/brendonurieworld-id-hit-that) are _why this is happening._

They fall on Pete like wolves.

He is shaking as if to come undone before they ever touch him. His face is flushed, his lips parted around heavy, irregular breaths, his eyes shining like fever. His clothes are still neat, his shirt unrumpled, his jeans fastened over an unmistakable bulge, the fabric dotted with telltale wetness.

“Baby, you’re so _good_ ,” Patrick says, halfway insensible as words trip off his tongue, sticky and bare-assed and raw from his own ministrations. “Haven’t even touched yourself.”

Pete makes a sound like a whimper, shaking his head. God, but passive, helpless Pete makes him dizzy, makes him want to shove Pete on the ground and fuck him rugburned and begging—

Brendon, his own pants tangled around his legs and his still-wet dick already thickening, pulls Pete by the belt loop. Pete stutter-falls forward, letting his head hit Bren’s shoulder, slumping like his bones don’t work, like it’s just the electricity of Brendon’s skin to his that keeps him standing. Brendon works on undoing Pete’s pants.

It’s like Patrick can see his evil plan: _love’s not a competition, but I’m winning._ Just like he stole Patrick’s lines, he’s going to try and steal Patrick’s boyfriend—try to outblow Patrick just like he outsang him. Patrick grabs Pete by the hips from behind, jerks him bodily away from Brendon like it’s tug-of-war. Maybe it is. The three of them stumble, tangle, and come back together, soft in sweaty spaces, magnetized.

They fight over Pete like a piece of meat: Brendon gets Pete’s pants undone and Patrick pulls Pete’s t-shirt off, not pausing when the neck chokes him before it pops free. Brendon’s tugging down Pete’s boxers, his lips huge and soft and wet, perfectly fuckable, and Patrick wants to fuck Pete harder, better, _first_. If they were playing at home—if they had supplies, or more than one shred of self-restraint between the three of their urgent, needy bodies—Patrick would ask permission for something like this, would make sure Pete was ready. But his cock is stiff and aching again, wet and sensitive from his last messy orgasm, and Brendon is getting down on his skinny knees to show him up. Patrick licks his own fingers and pushes one, two of them into Pete’s asshole without warning.

Pete cries out, his hips snapping involuntarily; Bren gets a faceful of denim and thigh. “Patrick! Oh fuck,” gasps Pete, and that’s all the encouragement Patrick needs to start fucking Pete with his hand, digging for the hot buried thrum of Pete’s prostate.

Brendon takes it as the challenge it is: which of them will make Pete come? Whose name will Pete call out the loudest? Brendon makes eye contact with Patrick while he wraps his hand around the shaft of Pete’s swollen penis and slowly, deliberately, with full awareness of how good he looks doing it, guides it into his mouth.

Pete moans hugely. “Brendon, god, my god.” He sinks, knees threatening to buckle, in a way that brings Patrick’s fingers even deeper inside him. Patrick works his hand, staring back at Brendon over Pete’s shoulder, while Brendon bobs his head gratuitously, sliding his mouth up and down Pete’s cock like there are cameras on him. Pete is caught in a chain reaction of collapse: the motion of Brendon’s head makes him sink deeper onto Patrick’s hand and the thrust of Patrick’s fingers into him bucks his hips back up into Brendon’s mouth. He moves like a ragdoll, an unstrung marionette between them, fucking and getting fucked.

Patrick is grinding himself against the rolling motion of Pete’s ass now, he can’t help it. So—fucking—hot. Pete’s helplessness. Brendon’s unwavering eyes. The chafe-burn of Brendon’s too-rough handjob still heating his own dick, giving it bright hot pulse-points. Yes. Yesyesyes.

“Do you like this?” Patrick pants into Pete’s ear. On his knees on the other side of Pete, the red rigid tip of Bren’s cock is just visible, quivering untouched and crowned with leaked pearls of come. No one’s touching Brendon, not even Brendon. Patrick feels a flash of fury, that Bren should still be so in control. Patrick wants—Patrick wants the opposite of that. Patrick wants to rewind to Bren’s voice breaking, failing, while Patrick sucks his dick so hard he can’t even sing. Patrick wants Brendon crawling, wants him ruined.

“Yes, god, yes,” Pete is saying. “More, Patrick. Hard—harder.”

Three fingers, four. This will hurt Pete later, and Patrick doesn’t care. He palms Pete’s ass, his thumb lined up in the crack of it, and fucks Pete with his whole hand, digs deep into the tight damp heat of him, scrabbles greedy against the glowing gland of Pete’s release—

Patrick needs something to do with his mouth. It ranges Pete’s shoulder, his neck. Patrick appreciates the view of Pete’s tattoos he really only gets when he fucks Pete from behind. He tries to chase Pete’s pleasure harder, faster than Brendon can keep up with, but with Pete’s next plea comes Brendon’s name. There’s that fury again, a hot tight coil all wrapped up with the rubber band snap of painful arousal in the bottom of Patrick’s guts. Patrick reaches around Pete and grabs the back of Brendon’s head, not caring how roughly, and tries to hold him in place—tries to feel the movement of his hand move into the thrust of Pete’s hips move into Brendon’s mouth and press Brendon’s head against his other hand, a closed circuit. Brendon glares up at him, under heavy eyelids, chin slick and shining with his own spit, and lifts his lips to show square white teeth, scraping the wet red length of Pete.

Pete, good Pete, poor double-fucked Pete, cannot take anymore. Patrick slams his hand against Pete’s prostate and Pete’s hips slam with equal force, bringing the head of his dick choking into the back of Brendon’s throat with frenzied violence; Pete’s whole frame goes rigid, electrified again, and instead of _anyone’s_ name he lets out an inarticulate snarl and comes, hips spasming beyond his control. Come overflows Brendon’s full mouth, spilling down his chin. Patrick holds both his hands in place til the last of Pete’s full-body shudders, til Pete’s legs finally give and he collapses between them, falling to his knees, off Patrick’s hot musky hand and out of Brendon’s wet fucked mouth.

Patrick sinks down after him. Pete falls panting and shaking against Brendon, who looks equal parts pleased with himself and fucking wrecked. Patrick’s so hard it hurts, like his skin is going to split, like his whole groin is a sunburn, like one soft touch would make him lose his mind entirely, without hope of return.

Bren is breathing hard, leaving his mouth open in a way he clearly thinks is irresistible. Of course he’s fucking right. Brendon slumps back onto his elbows and Pete’s boneless body follows, til they lay in a half-naked sticky tumble on the floor of the booth. Patrick’s heart is still going like it’s about to burst, like _he’s_ about to.

In a nearly devastated whisper, Pete manages, “That—that was.”

“Yeah,” agrees Brendon, his voice hoarse from Pete’s dick and somehow even sexier for it. Brendon is smiling in this lazy, self-aware way that is completely outrageous. Patrick is a mess of frustration and incoherent thoughts that mostly start with ‘how dare he.’ Patrick just—needs. He doesn’t know what he needs, but he knows he fucking _needs_ it.

Patrick wriggles onto Pete’s sweaty, stripped body and stretches his neck to kiss Brendon’s ruined mouth for the first time, to lick the taste of Pete off Brendon’s tongue and chin. He tries to pour his fury and desperation into Brendon with his kiss. He needs _so much_. He is too proud to ask to be touched.

Patrick’s whole body skips a beat when Pete shifts beneath him, rolling against the urgent hardness of Patrick, squirming into a position where he can reach Patrick’s dick. He wraps a hand around it, warm and solid, and Patrick’s hips hitch without his permission. Brendon kisses him harder, forcing his tongue deeper into Patrick’s mouth. They really are a closed circuit, Patrick thinks. They could sustain each other like this for eternity.

Brendon catches Patrick’s tongue in his teeth, bites and releases. He grabs Pete’s wrist, his knuckles grazing Patrick’s dick while he joins Pete’s squeezing and stroking. “Who will I be when I wake up next to a stranger?” he whisper-sings. Then Patrick is kissing the words out of his mouth and the breath out of his lungs and there are hands, _hands_ , two different temperatures and two different textures and one devouring sensation, and Patrick can’t tell where any of them begin or end. His eyes flutter, trying to close against all this bliss, but Patrick wants to watch—Patrick doesn’t want to _miss_ —Bren’s long throat, his hollowed cheeks, dark eyes and lashes, big pink lips and a big pink dick, and then there’s PetePetePete, all stretched out naked but for bite marks and tattoos, dripping with his own come and everybody’s spit—Patrick becomes aware of Brendon touching himself, greedy, making these attention-getting moans while both men rub Patrick, pull him, quicker and quicker, timing to the frantic uncontrolled writhing of his hips—Pete’s mouth is on his neck, licking and nipping towards the war zone that is his and Brendon’s kiss, their power struggle, this unbearable dynamic—Brendon, that exaggeration, that asshole, moaning huge and theatric against Patrick’s tongue and teeth, moving both hands faster, a fever, a race he means to win—

Patrick can’t take it. Patrick splits open at the seams. Patrick bursts into stars and sound and steam, leaving no mortal trace. Patrick comes in a hot rush, arcing over Pete and Brendon both. He makes a sound between a yell and a high G, singing vows before they all exchange smoke rings.

Patrick falls onto his back, not able to do much more than breathe (erratically) and watch (mesmerized) as Pete turns his attention to Brendon, kissing his swollen lips and bringing his come-smeared hand over Brendon’s where it jerks at Brendon’s dick. Pete sends a searching hand after Patrick’s collapse, finds his limp left hand and grabs it, squeezing. Brendon hits his highest note, C7, when he comes at last, and Patrick knows he’s done it on purpose, showing off—even in the throes of annihilation he can hit it clean, a full octave over Patrick’s range. He probably hopes it’s still recording out there. Fuck—Patrick’s guts clench—Patrick hopes so too.

For a while, the only sound is the juddery wheeze of their overstimulated breathing. Pete forms the link between them, holding each of their hands. Their hearts beat three as one.

“I think I won, right? Most valuable—vocalist?” Brendon says at last.

“Like hell you did. I will fuck you into next _week_ , kid,” Patrick snarks automatically, without any heat. He is fucking spent. Never in his life has he been so exhausted. He’s pretty sure another recording session like this will kill him.

“I’d like to see you try,” Brendon tosses back just as lazily.

In the middle, Pete squeezes their hands, pulsing a secret message through these three bodies. “Please invite me to your next sex cage match,” Pete says. “Not that I didn’t like watching. I—I was really into watching.” Patrick doesn’t need to see his face to know what his smile looks like, wide and pleased and helpless. “But I could get used to—collaboration.”


End file.
